Saving Dean's Soul
by LCFC
Summary: I will save you Dean - no matter how long it takes" - Sam Winchester


_Ok - major spoilers in this one for all episodes beyond A Very Supernatural Christmas. _

_Based on a conversation that takes place in 3.09 and happenings in 3.10!!_

_Angst to the wazoo and character death!!_

_All in all a good read_

_I don't own any of them - damn _

He tries to remember the last time he was in a bank like this one.

It is one of those big, airy places with columns and stone statues. A bank where the tellers still sit behind big glass panels and still speak through carefully placed grills.

Sam remembers then, remembers the shape shifter, remembers poor old Ronald, remembers fleeing down the fire escape, dressed in a stolen SWAT uniform.

He smiles, wistfully, sadly and walks up to the nearest glass panel, leaning forward so that the smiling teller can hear him.

He walks away from the bank with two hundred thousand dollars. It probably isn't enough, but he's gonna have to hope that it will be.

0-0-0

Bela hasn't changed all that much. There is grey in her hair and her face is more than a little brittle, eyes colder than Sam remembers, accent more clipped and precise.

"You look like shit, Sam," she says, reaching into her bag to pull out a small revolver, "perhaps you need a holiday."

He smiles, knowing that it doesn't even touch his eyes, doesn't even get close to looking genuine.

"I've got the money," he says and hands over the brown envelope, dollar bills spilling out and on to Bela's perfectly tiled kitchen floor.

"Never thought you had it in you, Sam," she cocks her head on one side and lays the revolver down on the table. There is a safe on her wall, hiding beneath an original Picasso. She opens it with a flourish and gives Sam a small, brown bag. It feels heavy under his fingers and he opens it and glances inside, relief flooding his veins.

"Thanks," he says, genuinely meaning it.

"Any time Samuel," she nods, her eyes warming a little, "see you around."

"I doubt it," he mutters, but she doesn't appear to hear him and she is waving as the Impala pulls out of her drive.

0-0-0

Bobby moves slower, arthritis riddling his bones. Sam suspects that he is blind in one eye and more than a little deaf, but the old hunter isn't admitting to anything. He pours Sam a generous amount of whiskey and they sit on his porch, watching the dogs playing in the yard.

"Do you think it still works?" Sam turns the colt over and over in his hands, trying to disguise the shaking.

"No reason to suspect that it won't," Bobby grins, toothless and wry, his lips closing over the whiskey glass, his eyes far away, "don't expect the bitch did a lot with it after her buyer didn't show," he leans forward and pats Sam on the hand, warm, comforting, fatherly, "take care now," he says, gruffly and Sam turns away, unwilling to see the tears in Bobby's eyes.

0-0-0

Lawrence is much how he remembers. Still very small town and homely; still full of nice old houses, well kept lawns and quiet, well behaved children.

Sam passes Missouri's house, but doesn't go in. He reckons she knows he is in town, knows what is going down. He wrote to her months ago just to warn her, just to ask her one last favour. Bobby is too old to do it, Ellen too emotional, Jo too involved. Sam takes one last look at his childhood home and heads for the cemetery. Demons, it seems, have sick senses of humour.

0-0-0

"Hello Sammy," the voice is silky, smooth, nothing like Sam remembers, "Didn't think you would come."

The man the demon is possessing is young and attractive, dressed casually in soft worn denim and creaking, sweet smelling leather. He had dirty blond hair, a little too long, and his pale face was covered in freckles. There was a familiarity about him which was all wrong somehow and, when he smiled, Sam was both sorry and sure.

"I had too," he held out his hands, showing them empty, a universal gesture of peace, "how could I ignore a summons like that, never could say no to you."

"It's taken years, Sammy," the man's voice is laced with pain, "years of torture and torment, years of pain and agony. Meg was right – hell – it's like hell – even for demons – but for humans – it is the end of the world."

"Why?" Sam felt a lump rise up in his throat and he swallowed it down, his hands shaking so much he had to thrust them in his pocket for purchase, "why did you come back?"

"To see you, Sammy," a sad voice now, pleading and pathetic, "after twenty years – twenty endless, timeless years, you are all I can remember," he shrugged, eyes narrowing, "you look old."

Sam shook his head and thrust his hand into his back pocket. The young man's eyes flashed then, from green to black and Sam knew he had to act fast; he had to do it now, even though, after all these long, painful years, it was still so hard.

He pulled out the colt and it spun in his hand. His finger twitched, just once, on the trigger and then he pulled, feeling the gun leap in his hand, watching the bullet find its target and hit, just where he wanted it too, straight in the heart.

"Sammy…" the man's eyes closed and he slumped forward, his face illuminated by the flash of lightening as silver hit flesh. Sam moaned, the colt dropping from his fingers as he rushed forward and caught the young man in his arms, begging for something, anything, even forgiveness.

"You saved me," the voice wasn't quite right, but it was close enough and the words were all he needed or wanted, "you saved me Sammy."

"Yeah, Dean," he pressed his head against the unfamiliar shoulder and closed his eyes, seeing better in his mind, his brother's face as clear to him as it was on the day that the hellhounds came, "I'm only sorry it took so fucking long."

0-0-0

Missouri knelt, her knees stiff and sore. She said the words and chanted the incantations, spreading salt and gasoline deep and thick. Her two oldest grandsons had helped her haul the old car into the clearing, had helped her lay the two bodies in it without question. Now they watched, eyes wide and wondering, as she lit the first match and dropped it, the car imploding, glass shattering, the explosion so loud, the fire so high that it seemed the whole world was in flames.

0-0-0

Bobby answered his phone, his tired old eyes fixed on a distant point, he was bone weary, too long in this world and he had had enough.

Missouri's words were soft, gentle and simple in their intensity.

"It's done," she said.

And Bobby lowered his head, took of his cap and cried.

End


End file.
